


Phantom Touch

by cabins



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Sakusa has OCD, somewhat of a vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27952190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cabins/pseuds/cabins
Summary: 'Seven Reasons Why The Bastard Twin Is Bearable', a comprehensive list by Sakusa Kiyoomi
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 10
Kudos: 199





	Phantom Touch

The air of the change room was suffocating and Kiyoomi felt exposed in the quiet atmosphere, the only noise being that of the gym’s janitorial staff talking amicably outside the set of double swinging doors. 

He sucked in long, steady breaths as he tried to quell the intense thrum of his heart beneath his shirt. He was sure if anyone else had been in the room with him they would’ve commented on the sheer volume of it. 

Kiyoomi had never been happier to be alone, spared the embarrassment of the vulnerability by whatever God decided the mercy him as he came undone.

His whole body was tense as he sat perched strategically on the end of the bench, unconsciously careful that he only touched what he needed to if only to satisfy the laws of physics and gravity itself. If it were up to him, at that very moment he’d be suspended in a sterile vacuum chamber instead of the sweaty, grimy change room with Bokuto’s ‘lucky’ kneepads only feet away. 

(Much to Kiyoomi’s dismay, the word ‘lucky’ to Bokuto was just a synonym for ‘I can’t remember the last time I washed these’.)

His hands hung limply over the bend of his knees, not daring to touch his own skin. He felt disconnected from them somehow, or maybe that was just his mind willing them away from his body. Even as they dangled in front of him, fingers spread apart and not daring to move, Kiyoomi could still feel the phantom grime that had embedded itself in the tissue, burying itself down until it attached itself to his nerves and refused to let go.

It didn’t matter how many times he washed them, the feeling wouldn’t go away.

Rationally, he knew what the initial feeling of it was. He was a professional athlete, after all. It was something he’d become accustomed to, like the cool drip of sweat on the back of his neck and the mild panic that would course through him when he’d land on the dirty, scuffed floor of the gym after a fumbled spike on an off day.

There was panic he’d become accustomed to. The panic he’d learned to force down until he was able to scrub his skin raw once no-one was looking. The panic that set in when someone was just a bit too close, or he touched his face in public without being able to ensure his hands were clean.

Some things, though, were harder to swallow down. The unpleasantness grew further than the momentary discomfort he was feeling regularly. 

It was quite unfortunate, really, that a professional volleyball player couldn’t stand the feeling of the dust and dirt and sweat that drilled itself into all the crevices, bends, and wrinkles of his hand with every spike.

He let out a dry, bleak laugh into the silent air. _How fucking unfortunate_.

He envied players like Hinata, who with every spike and every spec of dirt and dust that ingrained itself in the palm of his hand, seemed to only grow. 

Something about today had just been too much, so overwhelming in such a minuscule, unimportant way that his mind couldn’t find any other way to rationally deal with it aside from leaving that phantom feeling on the palm of his hand and between his fingers.

The phantom feeling for most anyone else probably wouldn’t have been that big of a deal. He’d never asked if anyone else got it, to be fair, but he didn’t think he’d be able to handle the humiliation if all he got back in return were blank, empty stares. 

He’d slipped away from practice when the feeling became so unbearable to deal with he was sure the others had begun to take notice. He wouldn’t touch his water bottle, wouldn’t touch his phone when Hinata pointed out he’d gotten a message. He’d even hesitated to spike down the perfect set Atsumu had sent his way. The thought that his teammates would touch the ball after him and the phantom feeling on his hands would be on theirs and somehow by the time he’d be ready to leave and go home, the phantom dirt and phantom germs that had begun on his hands would be everywhere was way too much.

He hated, more than anything else on this godforsaken planet, when the infuriating itch that could never be scratched wormed its way in between him and volleyball. Sure, volleyball made some of his anxieties more notable than he liked, but when he really got lost in the game, he felt _normal_.

In the heat of the moment, when there was nothing else except him, his team, and the enemy on the court, that was where the iron grip of the anxiety melted away.

After the hesitation on his end, and the inquisitive stare from Atsumu he got as a result, he’d turned heel and silently raced to the only dirty, germ-infested place he thought he’d ever be able to find shelter from the stares of his teammates and the odd, self-destructive comfort of his thoughts in a deafening silence.

It didn’t matter how many times he washed his hands, though. The comfort from the normally therapeutic feeling brought on by the ice-cold water of the tap did nothing to satiate the anxiety.

This first wash had been one intended to make him feel clean. The second had been another attempt at feeling clean, something the first hadn’t been able to achieve. The third through to the seventh that followed were distressed attempts to get the dry, sticky, dirty feeling from between his fingers and over the knuckles of his hand to go away.

Ever-present was the phantom weight of the long since washed away germs that repelled Kiyoomi’s hands from his body like they were magnets of opposite poles.

He’s not quite certain when the deep breathing exercises he relied on so heavily to bring him down from these mountainous peaks of nerves and irrational fear stopped working, but the action was probably more of a necessity to ensure he stayed breathing above all else.

His eyes were closed tightly as he leaned forward, breathing even until the familiar creaking swing of the change room door caused it to hitch. He hoped it was just someone grabbing something who wouldn’t turn a blind eye to him, or Meian peaking in to tell him to get his ass up and back to practice because God knew if he didn’t there’s no way Kiyoomi would ever be able to bring himself to stand on his own.

Atsumu Miya was not the person he expected to see, or rather, hear in the change room while practice was still underway, nor was he expecting him to be alone when he was. 

Kiyoomi liked certainty. He liked monotony and schedules and meticulous planning that kept everything in check. He liked to know things and to be certain of their outcome. Atsumu Miya was, in this sense, the bane of his existence.

He didn’t look up as the other came into view and made his way over to his gym bag across the room, whistling the tune to some American pop song he couldn’t place a name to.

The badly-dyed blonde was, to his credit, probably the second person aside from Meian that he’d be willing to be around. A shocking statement, especially from him, but he had his reasoning.

He imagined himself writing out his list in his head;

**_Reasons Why The Bastard Twin Is Bearable_ **

_By Sakusa Kiyoomi_

  1. _Out of all the germs he had to regretfully spend his days with, Atsumu was by far the cleanest and most considerate of the bunch._



Bokuto was too loud and spat when he got too excited (read: all the time) and Hinata had a tendency to forget about personal space and boundaries altogether. When the two got drunk, it was a nightmare, with Hinata hyper fixating on ripping his mask off during his first (and last) night out with them. Atsumu had actually been the one to pry Hinata off him, though not without a few drunken and unwelcome comments regarding the stick he apparently had up his ass. 

_2\. Atsumu is really stupid. Unbelievably braindead._

Kiyoomi had met the other Miya twin on a few occasions at big team events. It had probably taken him two minutes maximum to conclude that between the brothers, they had a grand total of one and a half brain cells. It had taken him less than thirty seconds to realize Atsumu was the one with only half.

That half, as it seemed, only dedicated itself to volleyball. On every other occasion, it was like he was functioning on his caveman instinct alone.

The setter being stupid was exactly what strategically made him the ideal candidate to have nearby in cases of emotional distress. He’d been there once or twice for Kiyoomi, not in situations like this one, but once when he’d been vomited on by some random drunk outside a club, and once more when he’d run out of gloves right before a flight cross-country. 

He never asked too many questions, never pushed to try and drag him from his worry. He listened, he stayed a grounding presence, and on the occasion of the gloveless flight, had wrapped his own hand in his sweater sleeve as a makeshift glove for himself and offered to hold Kiyoomi’s in his own.

He was thoughtful, in a dumb, golden-retriever kind of way, and that’s all there was to it. 

(And that’s what he’d continue to tell himself, but Kiyoomi had always been envious of those who could so easily lie to themselves and believe every word of it)

He could feel the other man in the room’s eyes on him, and his suspicions about the fleeting glances were merely confirmed by the frequent but momentary pauses in his rummaging. Atsumu let out a long breath, before collapsing on the bench where his bag was perched and, in turn, knocking his head against the metal lockers.

“Ow…!” The blonde winced, attention now on himself rather than Kiyoomi. The spiker wasn’t sure what he was doing here, considering his rummaging hadn’t seemed to provide anything in return.

He looked up, flicking his head back to move the hair that had fallen in front of his face away, and finally looked at Atsumu. He was met with a pinched, chocolate brown gaze.

He didn’t like the way he was being analyzed.

“What?” He bit. He sounded like a small dog backed into a corner and probably looked like one too. His voice was tight and he was still unmoving aside from the swivel of his head as he tossed his hair from his face. It was annoying, but nobody was touching it anytime soon so it was the most he could do.

The question lay unanswered, hanging in the air as Atsumu continued to stare with a blank, unreadable face. Kiyoomi stared back but quickly drew his gaze down towards the ground again.

A small dog backed right into a corner.

If the snort from across the room was anything to go by, the setter had taken that as an indication that he’d won. He was anticipating the snarky comment that always followed one of Atsumu’s immature victories, ready to snap back with animosity he didn’t really feel. The room stayed silent after that, and the burning feeling of a careful gaze continued.

_3\. Atsumu knew when to pick his fights. For as dense as he was, he knew how to read a room._

Kiyoomi didn’t know how long they sat there in silence, the distant, echoing sound of volleyball sneakers letting him know their practice was still happening. After an eternity, Atsumu finally decided he couldn’t take sitting still anymore. 

(That was probably a world record for him)

He let out an aggravated whine, standing from where he’d cemented himself beside his bag. “Please tell me this isn’t a regular thing for ya’,” He began, taking a few steps closer to Kiyoomi. “This is so fuckin’ boring.”

“Then leave. You don’t seem to have any good reason to be here, anyway.”

“I’ll have you know,” He drawled, coming to a stop in front of Kiyoomi and regarding him with a raised eyebrow, “I’m here to make sure ya’ hadn’t fuckin’ died or some shit.”

He wished he were dead, frankly, but whatever God he’d thanked for mercy earlier had certainly gotten a laugh out of this mess.

His jaw clenched together tightly, eyes downcast and body still stiff. Atsumu took the lack of response as a reason to continue, crouching where he stood as if looking Kiyoomi in the eyes would give him any indication as to what was going on in his head.

“Clearly, ya’ ain’t dead. Would’ve been kinda sick if you were, not that I want ya’ dead Omi, I just think it’d be a cool story to tell ‘Samu or in interviews,” He rambled on, “I feel like ‘Star Volleyball Player Miya Atsumu Finds Teammate Dead In Locker Room Filth’ is a pretty catchy headline, eh?”

_4\. Atsumu knows how to fill silence well. It makes him an easy person to be around when he isn’t an aggravating little shit._

“But,” he ran his own fingers through his hair at the same time Kiyoomi flicked his out of his face, almost as though the fidgety movements were making him uneasy. “Yer not dead.”

“No shit.” Kiyoomi huffed.

“Shuddup, I ain’t finished, ya' dick,” Atsumu whined, narrowing his eyes at him, “as I was saying. Yer not dead, so that means sum’ else happened, and I’m here ‘cause I hate having my _favourite_ spiker outta commission.”

“You’re talking to me in the same way you do when you want something.” Kiyoomi sighed. He felt drained, prickly, and shaky, and Atsumu was not helping the situation in the slightest. His finger twitched slightly, and the blonde let his eyes give up searching Kiyoomi’s face for information and laid rest on his hands.

“Omi-Omi, the fuck happened to your hands?”

They were an angry red all over, knuckles where the deep-tissue feeling still laid had been scrubbed and washed raw, the pale skin flaking and peeling off, leaving nothing but even angrier, tiny red lesions behind. After his last wash and dry attempt, the pathetic state of his hands had become more apparent than usual. 

It was an unfortunate side effect of his compulsive behaviour. No matter how much lotion he used, or how much he played with water temperature for each wash, they were a lost cause. It was a year-round causality. Smooth, moisturized hands had no place when it came to cleanliness that met Kiyoomi’s standards of comfort. 

He wore gloves enough when it mattered though so that the disastrous state of his hands wasn’t much of an issue at all. It was the pain that accompanied the severe state he put them into that bothered him. Just the most minute moments of his hands where the practically open wounds were made him wince and still. 

“Is this, uh…” It was like Atsumu couldn’t find the words, “This from spikin’ or sum’? ‘Ave I been throwin’ ya’ the shitty torn up balls again that scratch at yer hands?” It was posed like a question he wanted to be answered, but while Atsumu was attentive like a golden retriever, he was about as subtle as one too.

It was clear as day to the both of them that Kiyoomi’s flaky, dead skin and raw, angry red wrists weren’t from the volleyballs (directly, at least), but either way, he still let the response filter through his lips.

“As shitty as your tosses are, it's not that,” He started, rubbing the side of his face on his shoulder to reach an itch.

Atsumu watched him inquisitively, prompting him to continue.

“Rope burn. From adjusting the net.” He finished, not caring to elaborate much. It was a lame but explanatory excuse. If the net wasn’t secured right when it was set up before practice, or it was beginning to come loose after hours upon hours of tension, one may have to tighten it themselves. If you got unlucky and your hold slipped, you’d get a nasty hand injury from the cords and rope.

“Well, no wonder ya’ weren’t hitting nothin’ today. No worries, though, yer favourite setter is ‘ere to help.” Atsumu stood from his crouched position, turning back to his bag. “I got some shit to wrap ‘em up with for now. Ya’ probably got better stuff at yer place, but it’ll do the job for ya’ until then.”

Kiyoomi tried to ignore the way a new wave of anxiety shot through his body at the idea. His knee began to bounce beyond his control, and he rose to shaky feet to stop it. His mind could only go down the worst possible paths.

Somewhere just beyond his peripherals, he could already feel the itch as Atsumu gave him things to cover his helpless hands that he hadn’t the faintest clue where they came from. Unknown dirt, unknown germs, unknown everything.

Kiyoomi slowly followed after Atsumu, hands held just a little too far from his body to be natural, and his dark eyes trained on his teammates lean, strong back as the setter bent himself forward over his bag. 

There was a quiet ‘Aha!’ from the blonde as he stood back up, proudly lifting up a clear sandwich bag full of still packaged gauze, tape, antibiotic cream, and alcohol pads.

_5\. Atsumu, for as shitty as he could be, cared. When he cared about you, you could tell._

Kiyoomi knew what he expected, and it surely wasn’t that. It left a small, warm feeling in his chest. There were a lot of things the spiker associated with Atsumu when he thought of him, and ‘considerate’ seemed like one of the last things he would’ve thought.

In a file alongside adjectives such as ‘selfish’, ‘petty’, ‘obnoxious’, ‘smelly’, and ‘ugly’, it didn’t quite seem to fit.

(Kiyoomi over the last few weeks had begun to consider if the last two even still applied. His teammate had taken a liking to a very fragrant body wash that hung in the air around him and distracted him in a way that went beyond anything justifiable.

He also had become more _appreciative_ of Atsumu’s appearance not long after he’d noticed the soap, but those were thoughts better left unaddressed.)

“Why are you carrying that around?” He said dryly, attempting to mask his surprise.

Atsumu grinned, letting out a dramatic sigh and swinging his arms out beside him, “I’ve seen enough of my Twitter mentions t’know what the people like, Omi-kun,” He set the bag carefully down on the bench, “As the unanimously agreed upon ‘hottest member of MSBY’, I got a reputation as a sexy, charming, handsome bachelor to uphold.”

“This doesn’t explain why you conveniently have a bag of never used medical supplies in a clean, sterile bag. Medical supplies that are not traditionally used for the kinds of volleyball injuries you regularly get.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “I’m tryin’ on the ‘sexy doctor’ persona on for size, Omi-Omi. Kinda like, uh…” He stopped to think for a second, ignoring the way Kiyoomi’s lips formed a disgusted scowl, “That ‘Christian Grey’ fucker from that American film everyone was yappin’ on about.”

“He was a businessman, not a doctor, Miya.”

Atsumu simply held his gaze with that sly smile of his. “‘Course you’d know that, eh?” Atsumu winked, “He doesn’t matter, though. My point is, doctors, or field medics or whatever, people think they’re _hot_.”

As his teammate had been spewing his ‘sexy doctor’ bullshit, Kiyoomi had begun feeling more relaxed. While he still refused to touch the rest of his body, his fists balled and un-balled themselves at his sides. It was a start. 

“Doctors are not hot.” He said pointedly, feeling obligated to respond as the other watched him expectantly.

Atsumu shook his head, “Nah, they’re hot. Or maybe I’m jus’ the one that makes ‘em hot. Either way, I’m just ‘ere to capitalize off Twitter’s obsession with attractive doctor-like men in sterile places.”

Kiyoomi wrinkled his nose. “Sterile environments are nice, but they’re objectively the last place I think would turn anyone on.”

“Even you, Omi-kun?”

The sound of disgust that escaped his throat was enough of an answer.

Atsumu let out a loud cackle as he passed Kiyoomi and headed towards the bathroom so he could wash his hands before opening anything. After a minute, he returned.

“Okay, I’ll cave. I’m not plannin’ on seducin’ anyone with a sexy career change.”

“I didn’t think you were. You seducing anyone is already unbelievable enough.”

Atsumu scowled, “I’m gonna choose to ignore that,”

Kiyoomi watched intently as Atsumu took the antibiotic cream from the bag and squeezed some onto his fingers, holding Kiyoomi’s hand gently in his own as he carefully spread it across his battered knuckles. 

_6\. Atsumu was…gentle._

The application hurt, but Kiyoomi blamed that more so on the sorry state of his hands than Atsumu’s technique. The setter's firm, calloused fingers were more akin to feather pillows than anything else. His touch was that of flower petals, the warmth that seeped into him from the skin-to-skin contact was something he didn’t find himself hating.

Following the cream application to both his hands, Atsumu rubbed the residue into his own before grabbing the new box of gauze and opening it up. The silence between them was comfortable and understanding.

“‘Samu used to punch holes in the walls,” the blonde said quietly, the tip of his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in concentration. “He usually did it because we were fightin’, so mom made both of us learn how to patch each other up.”

Atsumu wrapped the gauze around his palm once, then twice.

“I’m shocked that you weren’t the wall-puncher of the family.” Kiyoomi hummed, the hint of a smile on his lips.

The setter paused and blinked up at him, lips pulling into a toothy grin, “Oh, I put a few holes in the walls too, I just usually ended up blaming ‘em on ‘Samu too.” 

Kiyoomi snorted, “No wonder he calls you the evil twin,”

Atsumu’s first-aid job didn’t take much time. He quickly finished securing the gauze bandages and putting the supplies away, perching them on the top of his own gym bag across the change room.

Kiyoomi slowly let his hands rest on his knees and he stared down at them as Atsumu cleared his throat awkwardly. “Y’know, ya’ don’t gotta be a stranger. I’m happy to lend a hand when ya’ need it.” He said, meeting the spiker’s gaze as he looked up from his hands. 

Red, raw skin was hidden behind clean white, and Kiyoomi didn’t think he’d felt this cared for by someone outside his immediate family since he was a teenager.

“Miya,” He began, biting down on his bottom lip nervously, “Thank you. For doing this,” His voice was quiet, but Atsumu had heard nonetheless.

It was only once Atsumu was gone, the change room door swinging behind him as he went, that the name on the plastic bag caught his attention when he finally stood to begin collecting his things.

Kiyoomi never thought that a large, bold _‘Omi’_ in thick black sharpie on a bag of first-aid supplies could make his heart do backflips, but he supposed that life was full of surprises.

_7\. Atsumu made uncertainty thrilling, not terrifying._

**Author's Note:**

> Sakusa is a huge comfort character for me as someone who has OCD and Mysophobia, so when I say this is kinda a vent fic I mean it pretty much is.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed :) if you'd like, you can find me on Tumblr [here](https://cxbns.tumblr.com).


End file.
